


Warm

by Chokopoppo



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Asphyxiation, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consentacles, Guro, M/M, Sexual Violence, Tentacle Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 17:58:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13575930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: Johnny was not kidding when he said he had other employers.Fill for the JtHM Kink Prompt on tumblr.





	Warm

**Author's Note:**

> *gestures helplessly at the tags*
> 
> I mean...I don't know what else to say. I hope you guys really love, uh...big nasty. The biggest nastiest. Please please please read the tags, please, I don't know what else I can tell you. 
> 
> Uuuuuh, this takes place in the same universe as Petals, and is an offshoot of that one scene from chapter three, although you don't really have to be reading that to understand what's going on here. It's moreso a fill of the prompt "can i get some wall monster/nny up in here? i'm going to hell when i die and i'm fine with that" from the [JtHM kink meme](https://jthm-kinkmeme.tumblr.com/post/170395816426/can-i-get-some-wall-monsternny-up-in-here-im) on tumblr. You and me both, anon. You and me both.
> 
> If you're here to tell me I'm going to hell, don't worry! I already know.

The labyrinth is dark, black for all it matters, coiling shadows and geometric edges, and Nny is home. He strides along the black obsidian floors, smiles at the alien smoothness of the walls, runs gloved fingers in stringing pathways against the belly of the beast. He turns a corner and looks down a fresh hallway - at the end, strung up on lightning-burned wood poles, there’s a wet, pink-red shape, a lump of flesh and blood roped up like a scarecrow, buzzing and rotting with a swarm of black flies. Around what might generously be referred to as its neck, a golden ankh hangs on a chain.

He turns back the way he came. It’s no good to bother with Tess’ plans. Honestly, he’s lucky she hasn’t caught him here yet - if she fires him in the real world, he’ll have to find work elsewhere, and he’s really been appreciating the easy passageway she’s built between New York and the Master’s World.

Distant footsteps. He presses his way through one of the walls and comes out on the other side, dipping out of sight. The Master must be somewhere, that foul beast of greed and pride. From the sound of it, it’s somewhere down below him. Nny taps a foot on the ground and slides down the hole that Wasn’t but Is, crawling his way back out as the gravity shifts a hundred and eighty degrees around him. The floor he fell through is below him, now, and he can hear Tess’ foot steps pass under him and away into the dark. He listens to her go, then slips away through another hallway, gaping open for him.

“Master,” he calls, though the very word curls his lip backwards in disgust, “where are you, you miserable gluttonous tick? I’m here to feed you, if your filthy hunger still lies unquenched. Open the pathway, you fucking - “

The doorway he steps through leads into an enormous, empty black space, a cavernous geometric cube full of darkness and wet mist and silence. There’s a rumbling, like a deep chirruping mess of fleeing woodland creatures, and a rising darkness - a shift, a deeper black than anything on the Earth or in the solar system, the perfect blackness of a vacuum to swallow him whole. The eyes, thousands of eyes sprout in the darkness, and then it surrounds him, a tight and choking mass of incomprehensible terror enveloping him.

Nny smiles humorlessly. “Toy with me all you want,” he says, “but I know what you want me to pay. What will you take? I can tear my own liver out for you, if you’d like. I’m nothing if not a professional. Or will you strike me lower? How much lower can you strike me?”

A maw opens in the darkness, pointed and angled at him, filled with blood-wet teeth. It chitters.

“Oh,” Nny says, and steps back, “I guess you could do that.”

The cold runs like a gunshot up his back. He shivers, staring up into the vortex of eyes, bending under the intensity of their gaze.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks, because when the Master is in a mood, it’s always a question worth asking. But he can’t feel any malice radiating out of the darkness. Something heavy and wet wraps around his shoulders.

_Hungry._

Nn has barely had the time to inspect the black tentacle (dark, cold, wet with slime, thicker than both his forearms pressed together) coiling its way around his torso when another, thinner tentacle sprouts from the darkness. It catches him by the arm, tightens painfully on his wrist, draws a yelp of pain from him.

A vice on his ankle - it yanks, and he tumbles backwards with a curse - 

Something blooms under him, soft and moving uncertainly. His stomach lurches as the _something_ lifts him on his back, roiling with gently experimental tentacles of all sizes. The air shifts around him, and he feels, rather than sees, the beast close in around him to feed.

He struggles in its grasp, of course. He can do little else. The air is stale and damp from standing all around the behemoth beast here in the center of this dimension, and he hisses it in and out through gritted teeth, tries to think of what to do.

First things first - whatever it takes, he’d better get compensated for it. “ _For the power you grant me, I give you my liver, my skin, and my heart -_ ” he manages, before being rudely interrupted by something shoving its way into his mouth. His head is knocked back, and he struggles against it, tries to grab at it with his hands, but his wrists are trapped in vices - 

Rebelliously, he snaps his teeth against it, and wishes, as usual, that he hadn’t. It sinks under the pressure like something ephemeral and ghostlike. Barely flesh at all. 

But it recoils all the same, pulling up from depths of his throat he hadn’t realized it had penetrated. His jaw shudders with the effort of his choked and heaving breaths, gasping for air he knows he shouldn’t need. A thrill runs white-hot up his spine. His mouth cracks in an open grin.

“ _\- That in exchange, you will allow me to return and feed you anew,_ ” he finishes, words coming out of his mouth in a tommy-gun rattle, and laughs as something probes at the hem of his shirt and slips up against his bare skin. “Come on,” he purrs, “even in your own dominion, you can’t bother to restrain me, can you? Are you too weak, or too slow?”

Like a string being pulled taut, the grips on his wrists jerk his hands above his head. He tries to pull them back to no avail, but is quickly distracted by the loose limb he can feel twining its way up his thigh. Something wraps around his throat and squeezes.

Entirely without his permission, his back kinks into an arch.

A faint touch runs its way along his spine, passing his neck and shoulders with whisper-soft pressure, growing bolder the further it moves along its path. What little breath he can manage catches in his throat. His knees part. Unbidden, the touch wraps around him and presses against his - 

He disowns himself from the sound that escapes his mouth. Pathetic - disgusting - a weak keening noise lingering over his lips, mouth hanging open. Traitorous hips twist and grind down into the limb settled comfortably in the nook between his thighs.

_Warm._

“Wait,” he croaks, but the Master either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. He hears the fabric of his shirt tearing at the seams as a tentacle thicker than both his legs combined pushes up under it and rubs cold friction against the dip of his sternum. He screws his eyes shut as the grip on his throat tightens threateningly, tries to pull himself away - but the pathway back to his small room is closed up by the mass of darkness surrounding him. Besides, he doesn’t really want to go. He owes this.

Glistening in the darkness, he catches sight of sharp, white teeth, and holds himself still for inspection. It’s difficult, especially as the thing between his legs presses and wriggles anxiously, sparking something hot in his underbelly, bloody and animal and shameful. It’s not as though he needs to breathe, but he keeps gasping, struggling against the grip on him and rawing his throat with wet air - his muscles scream to jerk and jitter, to buck up against the holds on his legs - he will not submit - 

Something slides over his lips, and he parts them obediently. When it plunges back into his mouth, he does not bother to protest. The grip on his throat loosens, stroking at his skin. No point asphyxiating him if he can’t breathe around the thing burying itself in him, after all.

_Warm._

He tries to protest, but nothing comes, his body twisted into a soundless vacuum filled with darkness. Maybe that’s for the best - noises build inside his chest, unable to bubble over and humiliate him further. The air is gone, it’s gone -

Something burns hot as he feels a prod against his hips, feeling for the soft, warm skin against his clothes. His knee jerks up, as though to protect himself, but it takes the plunge. His arms struggle against their confines - his skin stands on end in the cold, twisting hard and firm on his chest as something touches

_ecstasy ecstasy ecstasy_

and he cries out against the absence of its touch as it reels back, gagging on the fullness of his mouth, jerking after it as the tentacles gripping his legs and hips twist and grab and tear at fabric until there’s nothing left at all, and his chest heaves and jerks as something prods at his stomach from inside his chest

Not that he would ever submit, not under this sort of pressure. His foot kicks into the nothingness, even as his ankle is bound in loops of dark, wet flesh, sinewy and screaming. He is no animal, not subject to urges as foul as these, even as his thighs grow weak and his knees part without complaint. The flame marches up his back, twists and contorts him, but he will not kneel, he will not bow. 

It reaches for him again and he grits his teeth, prepared to resist it - 

Grips him at the root and pulls along the _godinheaven and beastbelow_ and he bucks at it, feels the holds at his knees push him open and something new and thin prods at him beneath - no, he can’t - 

_burning white hot boiling twisting_

it pushes _inside_ him and he twists in its hold but his legs are held so solidly that there’s nowhere to go but further down, burying it deeper, and something reaches for the peak of his arousal to steady him and he - 

The thing in his throat pulls out with such violent fervor that at first he thinks it’s trying to kill him and the noise he makes as he feels a grip wrap around his _godgodgodgod_ depraved and violent and unstoppable, high and whining and breathless, gasping and sweating and

plunging back down into his throat, pulling back into the shallows of his mouth, and he runs his tongue over it distractedly (tastes like wet slime and glass) before, in unison, the stems on either side of him running him through to the center

 _thrust_ and he - 

Arches up into a new grip running along his back and squeezing haphazardly at his torso, holding him steady as a tempo builds between his legs and between his lips, the latter slow and lazy and careful of his teeth, the former 

violent and wild and burning, pressing itself 

His body shudders as though he were about to peak, but the grip holds him firm and he writhes, unable to release the building tension, even as the thing inside him burns paths of friction against places that set him alight. His chest heaves, his muscles twitch, as he chases after a burn he cannot find, a resolution he cannot feel - 

it rubs against something inside him and if he could breathe he would scream - 

Teeth press into his bare flesh and he shudders - long and needle sharp and inhuman, tracing thin paths until they find his liver - a frozen tongue lolls out and leaves a wet line on his skin - sinks deep into him

The pain brings him forward through the mist for seconds, bare seconds in a haze of ecstasy and wild rolling eyes. Agony throws his world into sharp relief, reminds him of the smell of sweat and the sickening, wet noises pulled from his body. Blood stains streaks of red across his stomach and slicks his skin as the roaming touches on his bare skin reach for the wound. He tries to cry out, tenses the muscles in his arms, to no avail.

He has paid, and it has taken. The transaction is finished. The path back to his room is open, if he wishes to take it. Straight back into the dusty room, into the warmth of the world and his own body, safe and untouched. He can go now. All it would take is his attention.

The tentacle gripping at him between his thighs gives a little squeeze. His toes curl, and his knees twitch - 

And, for reasons he cannot explain, he laves his tongue over the thing in his mouth, and feels it pull back and run gently over his lips. His mouth falls open, jaw strained with its width, as another appendage joins it, thin as a human finger, and prods experimentally, holding his mouth open as a keen wrenches its way out of him.

Between his thighs he feels paths tracing down towards his crotch, burning with shame and arousal, and feather-light brushes of 

_please please please_

the thing deep inside of him rails a desperate tempo, frenzied, and his empty mouth matches it strike for strike with unmitigated sounds pouring out one over another, unceasing and growing as he 

bucks at the grip holding him back from the edge and feels it loosen, voice raw and ragged and wordless as it slides _up_ his

squeezing his legs arms chest cock pulling him frozen in place as it

burns stroke after stroke and tips him

_Warm._

over the edge and he goes blind with the heat and the power and the ledge slips from under his feet and he plummets, screaming and bound too tight to twist anything but his fingers into fists above his head

 

 

When his eyes open, he finds himself lying on his back in the center of his room, sprawled uncomfortably on the worn-down rug and a few minutes from sunrise. He gets to his feet, scowling, and brushes dust from his clothes.

It’s so _inconvenient_ when the Master gets hungry like this. Unfortunately telling, as well. It must be getting desperately cold, to be searching for warmth from _him_ …maybe he’d better check in with the man downstairs.

It couldn’t hurt.


End file.
